Happy Twenty-Five Years
by AlxM
Summary: AlElizabeth's birthday fic. One short story for each of her year! Brotherly love galore. Angst, shmoop, fluff etc. A few other characters may make appearances. Warning for some language.
1. Chapter 1

**Note: **Here's to one of my most amazing friends, AlElizabeth! I'm so glad to have known you. We've made our way through 19 pages of conversation in a year and nine months. Thank you for being my friend, and for being supportive and helping me with my stories every time I needed it.

Now, here's the first ten stories for your belated birthday gift. I've been going through some kind of brotherly shmoop withdrawal thing these days, so I think I took it out on your birthday gift. Heh. Sorrry. Although some of them are angsty, but I know you like angst!

Happy belated birthday! I hope you like my present!

No flamers allowed.

Apologies if there's any biological error in the ninth story. I have no intelligence in that field. *blush*

* * *

**Twenty-Five Candles**

* * *

**One: **Celebrating

It was his twenty-fifth birthday. And he was drunk.

"I'm cel-celebrating!" he exclaimed loudly, to no one in particular, and he smiled humorlessly.

His brother didn't want to be with him, didn't even bother to give a call at the very least for the past three years, probably too busy having fun at college to remember him or care about him. Three Christmases passed, his own birthdays, Dean's birthdays. And not a friggin' call. His father was out god-knows-where, hunting god-knows-what, all without him, leaving him all alone.

He would have preferred going with him instead of spending his goddamn birthday all alone, but it was almost as if his father didn't even know whether he was in the same room as him or not, like he was completely invisible. The man probably forgot he left his fucking son in this shitty motel room.

He stumbled through the doorway, his head spinning like a tornado, or was it the room? And he managed to keep his hold on his feet to the ground on time, but apparently not on the whiskey bottle in his hand as it slipped and fell to the floor, glass pieces scattering around the room. And for a moment, he couldn't do anything but stare down at them dazedly, stare down at what his fucking life really looked like.

Then he was feeling pissed, his nostrils flaring as his eyes hardened with anger and his fists clenched tightly, his jaw grinding and his chin jutting out. Why did everything in his goddamn life have to go wrong all the time? Why couldn't _he_ do anything without screwing up? Couldn't even hold a damn whiskey bottle right.

And then the next thing he knew, he was screaming at the pieces, kicking at them furiously and then punching the wall until his knuckles were bruised and bleeding.

And then he was on his knees, shards digging into his legs, and he was crying so hard and he couldn't stop. He didn't want to stop.

_Just friggin' celebrating_, he thinks bitterly.

.

.

.

He heard a knock on the door. And for a moment, he considered letting the person on the other side keep knocking until they got annoyed and left, because he really didn't care.

But then the banging got a little too loud for his aching head, and so he staggered to his feet as yelled, "C-coming!"

He nearly fell, twice or thrice, but managed to stand upright and trip over to the door, hauling it open with a hint of irritation and annoyance, too drunk to care about getting a gun just in case it was going to be something dangerous.

"Wh-what?" he snapped just as his blurry eyes landed on the man in front of him.

"Now that's not a way to greet a friend," the visitor said, smiling.

He squinted at him, trying to recall who it was. He seemed familiar, somewhere in his hazy, jumbled head.

"Forgot me already, huh?" he said, his voice amused. He clapped a hand on his shoulder and then walked in.

"C-C'leb?" Dean whispered as his slow and groggy mind finally caught up.

"Yahtzee," Caleb said as he put the whiskey bottle on the table. "Came here when I heard John was on a hunt and you weren't with him."

It took a while for Dean to understand, but when he did, he scowled. "Wh-wha'? S'you c-c'me 'ere outta some - some pity f'me?"

"Nah. Just thought you shouldn't spend your birthday alone."

* * *

**Two**: Happy Birthday

There's only about two weeks left before Dean's deal is due.

And here Dean is, a stupid party hat on his head while holding out another funnier-looking one towards him and badly baked pie in his hand with the goofiest grin on his face.

"Happy twenty-fifth birthday, little brother!"

Sam wants to get pissed at him, wants to smack him or scream at him that _you're gonna die in a few weeks and you wanna celebrate my damn birthday? _

But Dean looks so happy. No mask or facade or faking so that he could protect Sam from his own sorrows and troubles, but _actually_, _genuinely_ happy.

And he doesn't have the heart to ruin that.

So he smiles too, soft with fondness, and takes the hat and wears it on his head, pulling the string over his chin.

"You get a slice, 'cause it's your birthday. I get the rest 'cause I baked it, bitch," Dean says, grinning widely as he cuts out a piece.

"Shouldn't it be the other way around? After all, you baked it for _me_ and it's _my_ birthday, you jerk," Sam retorts easily, punching his arm as he laughs.

"Shut up," Dean says, holding back a smile.

.

.

.

"Dean?"

"Hm?"

"Your baking skills suck."

"Thanks, Sammy. Knew you'd be a good brother and appreciate it."

* * *

**Three**: She Always Burnt The Cakes

One minute, he was crying silently into his pillow (_Because she's gone. Jessica's gone and she's never coming back and it _hurts).

The next, Dean was there, hauling him up and into his arms as he held him close and rubbed his back soothingly, his hand moving in circles between his shoulder blades.

Sam tried to push against him half-heartedly at first, and then he was clinging to his big brother's torso just as hard as he sobbed harshly, desperate for comfort and something to hold on to, for _hope,_ and he already knew who had always been that little ray of hope in times of pitch-black darkness and seemingly never-ending despair. And he was clutching at it.

He felt Dean's grip tighten around him, and he did the same, closing his eyes as he sniffed quietly and shifted his head against his chest.

"Tell me about her," he heard him whisper softly.

And that was what he did.

And Dean sat there throughout the night, listening to all his stories and memories and all his hopes and dreams and how beautiful and _amazing_ she was and how she always burnt the cakes but made the best cookies and pies (_you would have loved her, Dean_) and what she loved and what she didn't love and how much she loved _him_. He told him about the ring he bought for her and that when he thought about who he would spend the rest of his life with, he always imagined it to be her. And the pain of all his shattered dreams was so clearly reflective in his voice and in his shimmering eyes that Dean could have sworn he felt his own heart break and crumble into pieces.

"_I loved her_," he told him, a tremor in his voice and in his shoulders. "_I loved her so much_."

And Dean just held him tight and mourned the loss of the life his brother could have had.

* * *

**Four**: I'll Always Be Here

"Damn it, Sam! This is why I didn't want you doing the trials!" Dean yelled, anger and fear lacing his tone visibly.

Sam tried to hold back the cough that was rising within his throat. "Dean, it's okay," he reassured softly, gently placing a gentle hand on his arm.

"No, it's not fucking okay, Sam! You get that? It's not okay! You..." he trailed off and bit his lip, sucking in a deep, shuddering breath. "You stopped breathing, Sammy... you were dead for a whole damn minute and I thought..." Dean was seemingly nearing hyperventilation, his breaths beginning to pick up as his face crumpled visibly even as he fought against it. "I thought you were gone."

Sam's heart ached, feeling guilty for making his brother like this, even though it wasn't really his fault. "Dean..." he whispered, his eyes softening as his hand moved up and grasped his wrist, tugging him down to make him sit alongside him.

Dean obliged, taking a light breath to loosen his tight throat and wearily plopping down on the bed as he ran a hand over his ducked face, as if trying to smooth his face from twisting with tears. He lifted his head and looked at Sam, his eyes slightly wet. "Sorry, Sammy. I'm just..."

Sam smiled softly, reassuring and fond, and then squeezed his wrist. "'I know," he replied lightly.

Dean looked at him, into his sincere and comforting hazel eyes.

"Do you trust me?" Sam asked, staring deeply at him.

Dean didn't move for a moment, not saying a word. And then he nodded, and Sam's heart swelled. "Of course I do. You know that. But that ... that doesn't stop me from being worried. It doesn't stop me from thinking about how you might ... " he paused, swallowing as if it hurt to say it. "how you might die, Sam."

The younger Winchester's eyes grew sad. "I know," he whispered, sighing quietly. He licked his lips, and then scooted an inch closer to his brother, "I ... I can't promise you that I have complete control over this, that I know for sure if I'll make it through this by the end. But what I can promise, Dean, is that I will fight. I'll fight as hard as I can, as much as I can, and as long as I can. For you. I'll fight for you, because you need me. But right now, I'm gonna need you more than ever too."

Dean stared at his little brother, with a gentleness akin to fondness and hope in his green eyes, and he thought about how much he had grown until now, full of maturity and strength and seeming years much older than he really was. And then he looked back on all the years before, until the very first moment he saw him with his own eyes as only a pink, squishy potato and held him in his arms for the first time. He thought about all that he's been through, all that they've been through, and how they still came out alright on the other side, closer and stronger.

And he looked at him now again, and thought of how proud he is of this kid. His kid.

He smiled softly. "I'll always be here, Sammy. And I'm not going anywhere."

* * *

**Five**: All Along

"Same circumstances, I wouldn't."

He had known what he meant by it, and how Dean had taken it to mean.

But he had never really tried to explain himself, to elaborate further to his brother, simply because he was too pissed to care and to correct his brother's misunderstandings. He had known how much of a emotional toll it was taking on Dean, despite all his efforts to seem indifferent to the issues in their relationship. Sam knew him too well to be fooled by his fake facades, his pretenses that he had put upfront to show that he was alright even when he felt like he was falling apart inside. He had become too familiar with all his masks.

It was the same one he used to wear when their mother's birthday and death anniversary comes along, the same one he wore after their father died, and after many other deaths and losses that have happened. After Sam's betrayal to him and the beginning of Armageddon, when Sam was soulless, when Bobby died.

The list was too long.

He had never tried to tell him that... that it's not that he wouldn't save him, but that he wouldn't save him with the same approach that he did. He wouldn't forcefully shove an angel down his brother's throat, and then lie to him about it. Even if he would have decided to take the same approach, the least he would have done was tell him truthfully what he was going to do.

But now, as he holds his big brother's dead body in his arms, burned and bloodied beyond recognition from Abaddon's hands when he ran after her so recklessly...

He realized that he should have told him all along.

* * *

**Six**: I Wouldn't

"You would have done the same for me," Dean said with full-confidence and determination, sounding too damn sure of his words.

And Sam just stares at him incredulously, like he couldn't believe anyone could even think that. And he huffs out a mirthless chuckle, bitter and dark, as he shakes his head. "God... are you seriously suggesting that I would have shoved some angel that I've only known for one day down your throat, without your real consent, and then lie to you about it to save your life even after you made your choice to die?"

Dean opens his mouth and then closes it again, speechless.

"Because if you do, Dean? Then you are sadly mistaken. No, I would never do it. I wouldn't the same for you, because I respect you far more than that and would rather let you go and be in peace than betray you again if you preferred not to come back to this life. And I also wouldn't do it because I know how it feels to have someone else violate your body against your will and make you do things you don't want to. Meg, Lucifer... ring any bells, Dean? You basically made me live through the same thing again, even though you were there when it all happened.

So, no. Same circumstances, Dean... I wouldn't."

* * *

**Seven**: Buried Deep Inside

He pounded furiously against the top of the casket, his hands growing increasingly desperate and frantic as his breaths became shorter and faster, due to the confined space as well as his long forgotten claustrophobia. Tears of terror welled up in his large, frightened puppy eyes and spilled down his cheeks, but he was too wrapped up in his emotions to notice.

"Somebody help me!" Sam screamed. "Please!"

He shifted uncomfortably in the small coffin, almost tiny compared to his huge frame, as he whimpered quietly. "Dean..."

He sniffed, biting his trembling lip.

Because... because what if Dean never found him? What if he died right here, his corpse locked up in here forever and never even known, and Dean never found out? What if Dean decided to spend the rest of his life, thinking that if he never found his dead body then he never died, obsessively searching for him? Knowing his overprotective idiot of an older brother, he wouldn't really put that past him.

He might be going a bit crazy from lack of oxygen.

But he pulled himself together, pushed those thoughts out of his head, and told himself over and over that Dean would find him.

He always found him.

.

.

.

Dean did find him, like he always did. Like Sam believed he would.

The lid of the casket seemed lighter against his arms, which were braced against the top from when he was trying to beat it, and then gave up when he realized it was futile and just sucking the little amount of energy he did have out of him. He felt lightheaded from the scarcity of air in the confinement, and he knew he was nearing the brink of unconsciousness when the darkness seemed even blacker and there were dots dancing in his vision.

And then there was an entire gust of air filling his lungs, and it became easier to breathe when the click of the lid resounded as it lifted open. There was light filtering through his closed eyelids, his sight filling with bright orange.

When he opened his eyes, Dean's face came into view in the midst of white torch lights, deep lines of worry and stress embedded into his skin as he looked down at him.

Panting heavily, he stared up at him in return. "T-took you long 'nough..."

Dean's lips were slowly overtook by a large grin, and then he laughed. "You're welcome, Sammy." He reached down an arm for Sam to grasp and to lever him up.

Sam's fingers wrapped around the appendage, and Dean hauled him up with a grunt.

"No more spirits with a kink for burying people alive," Dean gasped.

"You chose the stupid hunt," Sam replied, panting.

* * *

**Eight**: Her

Sam squishes his face up in disgust at the image on his frozen screen. So, Dean has been using his computer to do his...activities...again...

"DEAN!"

The devil pokes his head out of the bathroom, toothbrush tucked at one side of the mouth. "Woh'?"

"How many times did I tell you not to touch my stuff?"

Dean disappears inside again, an audible spitting sound heard all the way to Sam's ears, and then appears again with a cocky grin smeared with toothpaste. "Every time I did?"

Sam rolls his eyes. "Exactly. And now I'll have to tell you this again. Don't. Touch. My. Stuff," he hisses threateningly. And if it weren't his little brother that Dean just loves to annoy the hell out of, he may have been intimidated. A little.

But since it _is_, "D'awww, did I make grumpy little Sammy mad again?" he teases, grinning.

"Damn it, Dean," Sam grumbles exasperatedly. "Look, I don't mind that you use my laptop, but could you, at least, not use her for your perverted purposes and then leave me to deal with the horrible images whenever I open my history or screen?"

Dean tries to think up of a smart-ass comment.

But then really catches what his brother just said.

_...not use her..._

A wolfish, sly grin slowly stretches across Dean's face. "Her, huh?"

Sam looks up, eyes furrowed. "What?"

"You said, 'not use her'..." Dean pointed out triumphantly, the grin still plastered on his face.

Sam's eyes widened in horror. "What? No! No, you- you're just hearing things!" he sputtered, and to Dean's amusement, his face blushed with a deep tinge of red. "I-I... it's not like that! I'm not like you! Why would I even think about treating an inanimate object as if it was a living person?"

Dean chuckled. "Uh huh..."

"DEAN!"

* * *

**Nine: **One Step At A Time

Dean's whispering tenderly to the bashed up Impala, soft apologies and soothing reassurances with the gentlest tone he could muster with his gruff, deep voice. It brings back echoes of cherished memories to Sam, memories of the big brother he once knew to be the anchor - the rock - he could hold on to when there was nothing else left, even when that final and thinnest thread of hope seemed to have left him in the end.

But that was all right, as long as he had Dean.

Now. Now, it feels like he lost him too. Feels as if maybe, his father wasn't the only one who died. Maybe he had lost Dean in that hospital room with his Dad too.

He feels a burning pang of jealousy and envy in his chest as he watches Dean with the Impala, because he remembers the times when Dean used the same tone with him whenever he was sick or hurt. Now, all he knows is yelling, snapping and cold, blank voices that shot harsh pain across his heart.

And then he feels immediately stupid and ridiculous for being jealous of a car.

.

.

.

He lies on the ground, trying his best not to move.

For one, he's so, so, so, _so_ tired. Two, it fucking _hurts_.

There's a long deep gash down his side, gaping wide open. He's pretty sure his ribs are visible. Or at least, it felt that way when he touched it. He might have been wrong though, considering his fingers immediately jerked away as soon as they pressed against torn and bleeding flesh and he _screamed_ so loud that his ears were ringing for the next few minutes onwards. He tries to breathe as light and as low as possible, because when his chest rises too high, the skin on his wound pulls along and that just hurts too.

He wonders where Dean is, whether he's looking for him or just got in the car and waited, and then got annoyed and drove away. Seeing the way his brother's been acting towards him nowadays, he can't put it past him.

It won't matter though, even if Dean finds him. He already knows he'll never be able to walk to the car with the kind of wound he has. He'll most likely pass out after one step from the agony, and Dean's probably not going to carry his heavy ass all the way. Plus, there's no reception here in these woods to call the ambulance. He's already accepted that he's as good as dead.

Maybe now Dean can finally stop worrying about his annoying little brother always wanting to talk about feelings.

He stifles a hysterical laugh.

And that hurts too.

.

.

.

"Sammy!"

Sam smiles softly at the sound of his big brother's voice. At least he won't be dying alone now, right?

"Sammy?" the voice sounds closer now. And he knows Dean's looking at his mauled side, and all the blood around him. He's pale and weak and cold, and he's wondering how he's still alive.

He smiles. "H-hey, Deeee'n."

"Oh my God, Sammy," Dean whispers, and Sam can clearly hear the horror and shock in his voice.

The next thing he knows, Dean's by his side, his hands hovering uncertainly over him while he stares down wide-eyed at the wound, his mouth still gaping slightly until he clamps a hand over it, and then runs it down his chin, muttering something about damn Black Dogs. Sam hates seeing him look like this, his brother's green eyes glinting slightly with restrained tears of terror and fear. His face is deeply lined with stress, weary and scared.

Dean swallows thickly, sucking in a heavy, shuddering breath.

And then schools his features into one of stoicism and hard determination. "It's - it's not that bad," he tells him, tries to reassure him. "Didn't hit anything vital, so that means you're gonna be just fine."

Sam smiles slightly again, fondness coloring his features. He knows there are more ways to die from a wound than internal bleeding. "N-not st-stuupi'."

"Come on," Dean says, ignoring his words and reaching out an arm to wrap around his shoulders. "I'll help you walk."

Sam's eyes widen comically at that, before he starts panicking, shaking his head frantically. If one little touch could make him scream, God knows what folding his entire side to stand up would make him do.

"Sam," Dean snaps impatiently when his brother refuses, shaking his head and trying to wriggle away, even though the movement causes him pain.

Sam shakes his head again, face twisting. "Can't..."

"Sam..." Dean warns.

"C-can't," Sam repeats, swallowing.

"Sam! Just let me help you get the hell up, and I'll walk you to the car!" Dean nearly yells, leaning down to wrap his arm around his shoulders again.

"Jus'... jus' leave me," Sam pleads, knowing that their tries will only be futile and unnecessary pain. The car's too far, and the gash is deep and agonizing, and Sam just thinks it's not in him to do anything right now other than sleep.

Dean's trembling. Whether with fear, anger, frustration or stress, or even the cold. Or all of them. Sam doesn't know.

"Goddamnit, Sam!" Dean explodes. Okay, anger then. "Just get the fuck up! Or just tell me, I'll carry you to the damn car!"

Sam catches the strong desperation in his brother's eyes, and he knows it's killing Dean to see him give up like this.

But he's being real here. There's no way they'll be able to make it.

"M's'rry," he whispers, tears welling up in his eyes and sobs building in his chest. He's exhausted because of the hunt. He's hurting really bad (_probably dying too_), physically and emotionally, grieving for his Dad with no one there to listen to him or help him. And now Dean's yelling at him, in his possible last moments, and all the hurt has been accumulating up until now. And now he just can't keep the tears or sobs at bay. He squeezes his eyes shut, tears freed as a sob escapes him, and he waits for Dean to scream at him again.

This time, it doesn't come.

"Sammy, please," Dean pleads softly, placing a gentle hand on Sam's where it's resting on his stomach. "Please."

Sam realizes that it's the first time since Dad's death that Dean's spoken to him like this. Without yelling or snapping or any coldness in his voice, without any anger or irritation.

Dean does too.

He swallows at the thought, and looks into his little brother's eyes as he stares up at him in return, doe wet eyes large with awe and shock. "Please, just... help me out here. Do it for me, little brother..."

Dean lifts his other hand to run it through his brother's soft brown locks and brings it back to thumb the tears away as he bites his lip. "I lost Dad, Sammy..." he whispers. "I can't lose you too."

And that's when Sam realizes the true consequences of his death. If he dies, Dean will be alone. He'll have none of his family members left. And losing his last one, his brother that he's had all his life with him, just after he cremated his dad? It would break him into pieces.

Sam's silence is probably setting Dean's nerves on edge and scaring him. "I don't know how I'm gonna do this..."

Dean barks out a relieved laugh, and then he grasps his hand tightly and squeezes it. "You're gonna do this with me. One step at a time."

.

.

.

In the end, he doesn't know whether it was the fear of leaving Dean without a family, or Dean's gentle voice that brought him the strength to fight again. Maybe he doesn't need to know. Maybe knowing that _Dean_ was the reason is enough.

But he's suddenly there, sitting in the passenger seat, and Dean's kneeling in front of him, his warm and rough hands cupping his face gently as his big brother smiles at him, proud and full of love that only the most important person in your life can give you. And he's running his fingers slowly through his hair as he puts his forehead against his and tells him softly, "You did great, Sammy..."

And the wound that's shredding his side _hurts_, even more so than it did while he was lying still on that ground. But seeing his big brother's smile made every agonizing step worth it.

* * *

**Ten: **Hoping Too Much

Sam giggles.

Honest to god, _giggles_.

Dean doesn't want to believe this is happening.

His stupid, drunk, clingy little brother has hugged him more times in these two hours than he has for an entire decade. He has no idea why, even after he had told him he'd let him die about a month ago, and still seems to act like he stands by it nowadays.

"I love you, Dean," Sam slurs, smiling widely, in this goofy way that makes Dean's heart ache with _small hands holding his shirt hero-worship you're the best big brother ever big brown eyes full of love and awe I love you De_ and _we are a family you're my brother I'd die for you there's nothing I wouldn't do for you no matter what it takes I'll get you out I won't let you go to hell_-

Dean smiles tightly and awkwardly pats his brother's head.

He doesn't mean it. He'll only be fooling himself if he lets himself believe it.

Sam seems to have forgotten everything that has happened between them the past few months. But then again, that's typical drunk-off-his-ass Sammy. It doesn't matter what goes on in their lives. Give him a whiskey bottle, and he'll forget it all and be happy as a clam in high tide.

Sam grins, raising his bottle towards him.

.

.

.

But the thing about drunk Sammy is, he can either be happy or sappy. Or he can go from happy to sappy, or vice versa.

That's exactly what happened.

Sammy's gone happy to sappy.

"I don't like fighting with you, Dean," Sam says softly, bottom lip trembling. "It hurts, being mad at you and trying to push you away."

Dean's a little surprised to say the least. "Well, then why do you?" he can't help but ask.

Sam doesn't answer for a while.

"Because... because I don't know how else to feel."

Dean furrows his eyebrows in confusion, inclining his head a little towards the side.

"I think about forgiving you, and... and I can't. I just... I can't bring myself to forget what happened. It hurts just _thinking_ about it, so how can I tell you that what you did was okay?"

Dean's heart hurts a bit at the pained, sad whisper, the crack and tremble in his brother's soft voice.

"But it hurts not forgiving you too," Sam says, tears welling up in his eyes and spilling down his cheeks.

He closes his eyes, feeling the familiar guilt and regret churn his gut. He hates himself for what he put his little brother through. "Sammy..."

"And I'm scared, Dean. I'm scared because it feels like the more I'm pushing you away... the more I'm losing you to that damn Mark," he confesses softly, his eyes glistening again.

"Sammy, you're not losing me. I'm not going anywhere, okay?" he reassures, reaching out a hand. He hesitates for a moment, before finally letting it land on his brother's head. "I'm not going anywhere," he repeats, gazing right into his hazel orbs.

Sam just stares at him through slightly droopy eyes, eyebrows furrowed, as if trying to gauge the honesty and truth in those words from his face.

But then he leans forward, laying his head on his big brother's shoulder, and Dean's hand falls off his hair and instead drops down to his back.

Sam swallows, as if afraid of daring to hope too much, but deciding to do it anyway. His fingers touch the Mark on Dean's exposed elbow, tracing the outline slowly. "Promise?"

Dean thinks that maybe... maybe he can let himself believe that Sammy means the words he said. Maybe he's fooling himself, hoping too much.

But he decides to do it anyway.

"Promise."


	2. Chapter 2

**Twenty-Five Candles**

* * *

**Eleven: **What You Can't See

**(Warning for some graphic torture)**

The sound Sam makes is somehow caught between a gasping sob and a strangled whimper. It tears through Dean's heart like a knife through his sternum.

He gets up from the bed, walks two steps between him and Sam, and sits beside him on the edge. "Sammy?" he asks softly, and tentatively reaches out a hand, unsure whether that would be the right course of action in the situation of Sam's fragile, hysterical frame of mind, whether it would worsen what he's seeing and spook him even more. But then decides that it can help him too. Maybe it can bring him back from whatever living nightmare he's stuck in and ground him into the present.

He lays a hand on his shoulder, light and gentle, but Sam doesn't notice.

"Sammy, hey. It's okay," he soothes. "Whatever you're seeing, it's not real." He tries to catch his eyes, but Sam's too focused on the horror he's looking at in the far-off corner.

...

He watches Dean's mangled and disfigured body, slowly breaking apart bone by bone and falling to the ground. There's fire everywhere, and he can't move because he's too terrified, even though his mind's screaming at him to bolt and run. But there's no place that's devoid of flames, and it's dancing and glowing everywhere, taunting and mocking him and bringing forth horrendous memories that he has tried his hardest to push back.

But now they're all here, flashing in the forefront of his mind, and there's so much blood on the pieces of Dean as he burns in the fire.

...

It's been ten whole minutes of Dean futilely coaxing, snapping, begging and screaming at his brother to snap out of it. His hands grab his biceps, shaking him hard, and Sam just jerks back and forth with the harsh and forceful gesture (that Dean feels guilty about and yet knows is necessary) and starts crying. "Dean..."

"Sammy? Sammy, I'm right here," Dean says, hoping he finally got through to him as he tightens his grip on his arms. "I'm right here. Come on, little brother, come back to me."

"Dean, m'sorry," Sam whimpers, face crumpling and tears falling down his cheeks as he clutches tightly at the sheets under his palms. "M'so sorry."

Dean licks his lips and leans forward a bit more. "Hey, look at me," he demands firmly, and still running on patience that has withered thin, he snaps when Sam doesn't, half out of desperation and half out of frustration. "Goddamnit, Sam! _Look_ at _me_!"

Sam doesn't listen, only starts hyperventilating as he watches the horrors his mind's projecting on him. Harsh wheezes for oxygen emit from him as his chest struggles to pull in hungry breaths. He manages a sob through his gasps for air, tears streaming down his face as his fingers reach up and twist into his hair, shaking his head frantically.

And Dean knows it's bad.

It's really, really bad.

...

Lucifer's staring at him, his smile crooked and vicious as he eats Dean's burned insides.

...

Dean's never felt more helpless in his life, watching his brother terrified and hyperventilating.

But maybe there's one thing he could do.

Dean curls an arm around him and pulls him close, pushes his forehead against his chest, and Sam still can't look away from that goddamn corner.

So, he puts a hand over his brother's eyes. Maybe what he can't see can't hurt him. "Don't look, Sammy."

Sam's gasping against his shirt, sobbing and whimpering, and Dean wants to kill whatever's hurting him this badly.

But he can't. Because it's not a monster.

It's Sam's own mind that's screwing with him.

Dean doesn't bother calming him down, knowing it's for the best anyway. Sam needs this. It hurts, and it makes every fiber in his body ache with the need to help him, but he knows it's better than this.

...

When Sam finally passes out, Dean slowly lays him down on the bed, takes off his jacket and shoes, and pulls the blanket up to his chin.

He perches back on the edge of the bed, at his brother's side, and tries not to cry, clenching his jaw hard as he slides his hand into his hair and watches him.

Until the lull of his brother's even breaths carry him into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

**Twelve**: When You've Both Fallen

_What happens when you both have fallen?_

Sam has been asking himself that question, trying to come up with an answer as he watches Dean sit quietly on the couch, mourning the death of the only true father figure they've ever had.

_Who is there behind you, arms ready to catch you? What happens when there's no one left to lend you a hand, and pick you off the ground when you don't have enough strength to do it yourself?_

Sam looks down at his hands, tears welling up in his eyes for the hundredth time in the past week. The pain inside is ripping through him like tearing paper, sharp and harsh, and the grief and despair and loss is pushing against his chest heavily and twisting his stomach as he thinks about how they'll never see Bobby again. Never talk to him. Never hear him call them an idjit.

He clenches his hands into fists as he starts shaking, his veins burning with sorrow and agony and devastation, and he squeezes his eyes shut, his sickness swirls in his stomach at the thought of him being gone forever, and he breathes hard and silent, trying not to cry.

Sam realizes how far it had all been from completely sinking in, when it really does.

And when it does, he finds himself running to the bathroom, clutching at his stomach as he vomits it all out, retching and gagging. And for one insane moment, he thinks, maybe he could just flush it all away. Maybe, if he throws up enough, it'll just leave his body, and he'll never have to feel any of it ever again.

It only leaves him sagged against the wall, crying and sobbing uncontrollably hard until he's silently begging to go back to the numb emptiness where he couldn't feel anything (because anything is better than this).

**...**

There are arms around him, wrapping around his shoulders and back, hands clutching at his shirt and pulling him close, and a face tucks gently against his neck.

"We'll be okay, Sammy," he hears his brother's voice whisper softly, broken and fragile, but with a new-found conviction and strength even as he feels his neck grow wet with his tears.

Sam's arms slowly come up, clutching back at him tightly, and he closes his eyes and feels the anguish of that rip inside him lessen for a while, feels the comfort of the embrace warm and sooth the wound in his heart.

"Yeah, we will be," Sam replies, sniffing quietly as he nods, tone just as soft and quiet as Dean's was.

_What happens when you've both fallen? Who is there behind you, arms ready to catch you? What happens when there's no one left to lend you a hand, and pick you off the ground when you don't have enough strength to do it yourself?_

For Sam, it turns out the answer is pretty simple.

You carry each other instead.

* * *

**Thirteen**: Sick

Dying seemed easier than this right now.

This pounding in his head that felt like it was trying to break his skull into pieces from the inside, the large cotton bud wedged in his burning nose that made it hard to breathe. Not to mention, the tiny knife that kept scraping his throat raw every time he swallowed.

And the heat that made him sweaty and hot like he was in a furnace. Though, why was he shaking then?

He shifted in the extreme discomfort that crawled all over him, trying not to cry just because no matter how much he twisted and turned, he couldn't find a comfortable position.

"Aww, Sammy," Dean said, chuckling softly at the sight of his poor little brother, who was seemingly on the verge of tears. But he didn't tease the kid, knowing how shitty he must be feeling.

He placed the glass on the side table, two pills alongside it, and then sat on the chair and retrieved the washcloth on his brother's forehead, dipped it in the cold water, and pulled it out again, wringing it out, and laying it back where it was before.

"H'te dis..." Sam slurred miserably, nose and cheeks flushed pink with fever, eyes a little wet.

"I know. Sucks," Dean said sympathetically, reaching out and rubbing his sweaty hair.

"He'd hur's," he mumbled, quiet, but audible.

"Well, that's why I've got these painkillers," Dean said, jerking his chin towards the two pills lying on the night table. "You wanna take these now?"

Sam nodded, and then regretted the action as his headache spiked, grimacing in pain.

Dean moved from the chair and to the edge of the bed, removed the washcloth, and pushed an arm underneath his brother's back.

"You ready?" he asked, looking at Sam's kicked-puppy face.

"Y's."

He gently, carefully, pulled him up until he managed to get him into a half-sitting position. Dean backed up against the headboard and Sam's head flopped against Dean's chest, brown hair disheveled and all over his shirt.

"Here," Dean said, placing the pills on his quivering and weak hand, and grabbed his wrist to lift it near his mouth.

After his brother had downed the pills with water, he laid him back down on the mattress, and let Sam curl into his side, clutching his shirt in a weak and loose grip.

"'Swear, Sammy. If I had to choose between you and a puppy, it wouldn't have made much of a difference," Dean muttered, a soft, fond smile playing at his lips as he ran his fingers through his little brother's hair.

"G'night, De'n," Sam slurred sleepily.

"Good night, Sammy."

* * *

**Fourteen**:

Sam sighed softly, and walked over to his bed slowly dropping his bag down and then plopping down miserably beside it, staring down at his hands with a disappointed twist of his mouth.

Dean came in with a click of the door soon after, sliding in and shutting it and locking it behind him.

"You've been sulking throughout the entire ride. What's wrong with you?" Dean asked, shrugging out of his jacket and discarding it on the chair nearby carelessly. And then he walked over to his own bed, grabbing the remote on the nightstand and reclining down with a casual arm below his head, but his eyes remained on his brother, ready to listen.

"Nothing," Sam mumbled, his expression and posture betraying his words clearly.

"Doesn't sound like nothing," Dean replied, a hint of worry showing up in his voice.

Sam said nothing, staring down at his hands.

Dean sat up on the bed. "Alright, come on. Girl trouble? Friend problems? What?" he prodded. "You know you can tell me, right?"

Sam swallowed and sighed, closing his eyes.

"I won't make fun of you," Dean promised.

Sam remained silent for another few seconds, and Dean was starting to think he wouldn't get any answer from the kid, when he finally glanced up at him.

"I'm just sick of moving around all the time," Sam began quietly, clenching his jaw in order to force back his tears. "I'm sick of being the new kid. The freak. I'm sick of not having any friends to hang out with at lunch. I'm sick of not having a home where we could stay and be like a normal family. I'm sick of trying so hard to keep my grades up like this." He stopped as his trembling voice cracked on the last word, and he inhaled a deep, shuddering breath. "I'm just so freaking sick of everything."

Dean stood up from the bed, moving towards his brother. "Sammy," Dean said, sitting beside him. "I know our lives aren't easy. But that doesn't mean things won't _get_ easier."

"What does that mean?" Sam asked, wiping a hand under his nose as he sniffed.

"It means it'll get better," Dean answered simply. "You'll get used to it. And it won't seem so hard anymore."

Sam remained silent.

"And what if it doesn't?" he questioned quietly after a while.

"It _will_. I promise," Dean reassured, conviction in his voice.

Sam didn't say anything, swallowing, before he inhaled, and nodded. "Okay."

"Okay?" Dean repeated.

Sam nodded again. "Okay."

Dean breathed a sigh of relief, and then promptly fell back on the bed, an arm beneath his head.

Silence ensued for a moment.

Dean glanced at him. "Who knows? Maybe you'll even get out of it someday, you know? Get into some... some big-ass, highly famous university, what with those huge, geeky brains of yours," he said, smirking.

Sam looked at him, staring at him for a while.

"What?" Dean asked, slightly puzzled.

Sam shook his head. "Nothing."

* * *

**Fifteen**: Darkness

"It was dark there. Lonely. So much that you felt hopeless about everything." Sam's quiet voice piped up from the other bed, and when Dean glanced over, he could see the outline of the position of his body, lying on his back while his head directed towards the ceiling, no doubt gazing with a sightless, distant look in his eyes as he remembered his time in Hell. "It was so voidless... that sometimes it felt like I was being swallowed whole by it, or like I didn't even exist."

Dean remained silent, letting his brother speak without any interruptions.

"Sometimes, he'd come back. He'd ask me if I wanted some light, when I couldn't take the blackness anymore, and I'd say yes." He stopped, pulling in a sharp, trembling breath, before he continued with the next words.

"And then he'd set me on fire."

Dean swallowed, closing his eyes. Sam chuckled softly, a broken, mirthless sound. "It was better than the darkness."

"Other times, he'd make it cold, until I'd be numb all over," he whispered, his words shaking and tight in his throat. "And that's when I'd feel most like... like I don't exist at all. I... I couldn't feel anything, Dean. Anything. Only the terror was there, and nothing else." His face crumpled, shaking his head. "Nothing else was there, and I..."

"I'm here, Sammy," Dean soothed, little above a gentle whisper in the darkness, wishing more than ever that the goddamn lamps were fixed in this forsaken motel room. "Don't be scared, okay?"

"I... I can't..." Sam gasped, his voice cracking, panting lightly as his breaths shallowed.

Dean was there beside him, two steps in two seconds, and he grasped the side of his brother's neck. "I'm here. I'm here, little brother. You're not alone here. And you're not there anymore," he whispered. "I'm here, with you. And I'm not gonna leave you."

Sam swallowed, eyes glinting with tears in the dim moonlight filtering in through the windows, and he nodded as his eyes slipped shut, clutching at his big brother's arm. "You're here," he repeated.

"I'm here." Dean smiled. "And I'm _not_ gonna leave you."

* * *

**Sixteen**:

Dean slid out the plate of spaghetti from the microwave. "Ow!" he hissed, trying to flick the pain out of his hands as the handle burned from the heat.

"De?"

Dean let go of the spaghetti for a moment in favor of his brother. "Yeah?"

Sam tottered up to him in his short five-year old legs, looking up at him through wide eyes as he hid something behind him. "Can I give something t'you?" he asked, smiling a bit shyly.

"Sure, Sammy," Dean said, smiling back at him.

Sam brought one of his hands out forward, holding out a small, colorful card towards Dean. "S'for you. I make it at school today. The tea-teacher says I make it for someone very spec-special t'me."

Dean chuckled. "Yeah?" he said softly, pulling it off from his tiny fingers. "And I'm very special to you?"

"Most special!" Sam exclaimed, bouncing slightly. "You most special than anyone!" He paused, and then looked around as if making sure no one was there, before leaning in closer towards Dean, who bent down a bit to be within earshot with his little brother's secretive-whisper voice. "Even more than Daddy!"

Dean stilled for a second at that.

_Even more than Daddy._

He had always known his baby brother practically worshipped him and the ground he walked in. But he had never considered himself to be more 'special' than his Dad to him.

Maybe he felt slightly guilty for the flush of warmth filling him up inside.

But his little brother loved him more than anything, and that meant more than everything to him.

Dean smiled softly, swallowing to chase away the lump in his throat and trying to hold back the burn the tears in his eyes.

"De?" Sam asked, worried. "Wha's wrong? Did I do something bad?"

Dean shook his head, rubbing his hand over his eyes. "No. No, you didn't. I just..." he trailed off, sighing, and looked down at the card in his hands. "You wanna read this together?"

Sam nodded enthusiastically, grinning widely, and took Dean's offered hand with eagerness.

Dean led him to the table and sat down on the chair himself, before he pushed his hands under Sam's armpits, who squealed and wriggled slightly. Dean laughed lightly at his ticklish little brother, and then lifted him onto his lap.

Sam tucked his curly-haired head under his big brother's chin, his eyes fixed on the card as he watched Dean open it and begin to read.

"Dear De. I love you so, so much. You are most special to me because you take good care of me. You make me ready for school, you make me lunch, you make me dinner, you play with me, and you give me very much love. You are the best big brother ever."

Dean smiled again, and kissed his head.

"Thanks, Sammy. I...I loved it."

He knew that, maybe, Sam would probably forget about all of this when he grew up.

But Dean knew he'd remember it forever.

* * *

**Seventeen**:

"You know about how everyone has a limit to how much they can tolerate, Sammy?"

Sam ignored him, cleaning his gun with irritated vigor.

"Well, Dean is no exception," Lucifer said from where sat on the arm of the chair on the opposite side of the room, a smile slithering across his lips. "You know, sooner or later, that he'll get sick and tired of always having to look out for you. I mean, he's done it all his life, and what did he end up with? Nothing but a useless brother with ten buckets of crazy in his screwed up head."

"Sammy?"

"You don't really believe he'll stick around even after his patience wears out, do you? I mean, don't you think that would be expecting a little too much?"

"Sammy?"

"You know the solution to this problem, Bunk buddy," Lucifer said, wagging a finger with a smile, and then raising it to the side of his head in a mimic of a gun. "Pew." He jerked his finger.

"_Sammy!_"

Sam flinched, dropping the gun he was cleaning on the bed, and turned his head towards his brother on the other bed, his back against the board with a casual arm beneath his head, a remote in his hand.

"You alright?" Dean asked, worry clear in his voice and expression.

"Yeah," Sam affirmed, nodding.

"You're a terrible liar," Lucifer said, shaking his head. "See that doubt on his face? That's him wondering when you'll finally explode like the ticking time bomb that you are."

"Shut up," Sam muttered to him, not audible enough for Dean to understand, but enough to know Sam was talking.

"You know I'm right, Sammy," Lucifer taunted, smiling.

* * *

**Eighteen**: Destiny

_"You and I, Sam," Lucifer whispers, soft and paternal as he places a hand on his true vessel's shoulder. "We have always been so different from the rest of the world. But with each other..." He leans forward to catch Sam's averted eyes, smiling. "We are nothing but the same."_

_Sam remained silent, before his eyes slowly shifted to look the Devil in the eye, swallowing. "I'm nothing like you," he replies quietly, his voice wavering._

_"We were always second-best to our fathers. And why?Because we were always the one with our own minds? Because we were independent and free and dared to follow our own opinions while our brothers cowardly obeyed orders?" Lucifer hissed ardently._

_He softened, and then smiled. "You were made for _me_, Sam. You have always been meant to be mine, ever since the beginning of time. It is your true purpose to become my vessel, and you *will say yes to me."_

_"Just because it was my purpose, doesn't mean it's my destiny," Sam said._

_Lucifer smiled again, calm and reposed._

Lucifer's whisper followed him into the world of living as he woke up, shooting up into a sitting position as his body drenched in sweat and shook.

_"Then I will make sure it becomes your destiny."_

* * *

**Nineteen**: Consequences

"Sammy?"

"What the hell happened to you?!"

"Uh... I... I touched something in the vault... that I shouldn't have..."

"What were you doing in the vault anyway? You know you're not supposed to mess around in there! God knows what kind of crazy things they kept in there!"

"Well, I just... it didn't look like anything harmful! It just looked like a normal, purple little crayon, okay? You can't blame me for wondering what the hell it was doing in a vault full of artefacts and curse boxes!"

"Goddamnit, Dean! You know just as well as I do that appearances can be deceiving!"

"Could you stop being such a bitch and help me fix this?"

"No, you know what? You're on your own this time! You did this to yourself, and now you bear the consequences."

"Come on, Sammy! Have some pity, I'm freaking purple!"

"You reap what you sow..."

* * *

**Twenty**:

Sam groaned, sweaty and shivering as he curled up on his side, lying on top of the worn cot in the panic room.

Fighting against his craving for demon blood had become harder and harder with every day he went without it after the Famine, which had rekindled the addiction he thought had been cleansed from him when he was put on that plane after he started the apocalypse.

He had slipped once again.

And he couldn't imagine, didn't _want_ to imagine, how disappointed Dean must be in him for that. He felt the shame burn inside him, the guilt clenching his gut painfully, as well as the fear flood his veins as he thought back to the last two times he had to suffer through the withdrawals.

He didn't want to be alone this time.

At least, not entirely.

He built up courage as he watched Dean silently chain him to the cot and slide a pad in between his wrists and the sharp metal handcuffs, before he ventured.

"Do you think you could... could come down here a few times a day?" Sam asked quietly, a hint of hopefulness underlying beneath his words. "Or maybe, at least once a day?"

Dean didn't answer, just turned on his heel and headed towards the door of the panic room.

Sam's heart sank with sadness and loneliness as he thought of the agony he'd have to suffer for the next few days without anyone to help him through it once again. He sighed softly, pushing down the burn in his throat and in his eyes as he closed them and shifted a little, preparing himself for the torment of withdrawals.

He heard the click and creak of the heavy door, and his eyes shot open as he startled at the sudden, loud noise intruding the silence that had filled up the room.

When he looked back, he saw Dean standing there, holding a pillow and a blanket in his arms.

* * *

_I hope you like these, AlElizabeth. :)_


	3. Chapter 3

**Note: **_I'm very sorry if anyone was looking for the update earlier. I had to delete it when I found a buttload of errors regarding past and present tense which I didn't notice while editing/checking over it. And it was night so I had to put it off for the time being, and I couldn't let you all read that annoying sudden switch of past-to-present and vice-versa part! I'm so sorry for the inconvenience. But here it is now, and I hope you enjoy it! :D_

* * *

**Twenty-one**: I'll Always Come Back

"Dean!"

Dean exited the car and looked up just in time to feel his eleven-year old little brother collide into him, his arms wrapping around his neck tightly. He had to bend down a bit and Sammy had to stand on his toes, since he was still too short to be on the same height level as his. Dean wished he could stay like this forever, smaller than him, shorter than him, so he could be the big brother. But he knew Sammy would have to grow up one day, and when that day came, he wouldn't be his little brother anymore. He wouldn't need him, and the thought saddened him slightly.

"Hey, squirt," Dean laughed, his own arms snaking around his shoulders and holding him back just as hard. "You miss me?"

Sam nodded, but didn't give him any verbal response. Dean knew what that meant.

"You're upset, huh?" Dean said softly. Sam had been like this almost every time he came back from a solo hunt.

He still remembered the argument they had after he found out about his Dad's plans on sending him to hunts alone. Same old words he had been hearing ever since Sam decided to become a rebel (_Why do you have to follow his orders all the time?_). Kid didn't even reach his teens yet, and he was already acting like one. But he knew he had just been worried.

Sam drew back from him, wiping at his eyes. "You wouldn't come back," he answered quietly, his voice just a touch above a whisper. "It had been so long, and you wouldn't come back."

"I'll always come back, Sammy," Dean replied, smiling gently and ruffling his hair. "Don't you dare think otherwise."

* * *

**Twenty-two**: Hellish Fevers

"Sammy," Dean whispers quietly, not wanting to aggravate his brother's headache due to the fever he's currently sporting. He can feel the heat waves radiating off of his skin from the few feet of distance between them, which means his fever is up to a hundred-something.

He'll find out soon.

"Sammy, I need to check your temperature," Dean says softly to the whimpering man, who looks like the little kid he used to hold after a terrible nightmare at the moment. He really wishes things were still easy and simple like they were before, where all he needed to do was hug him and make all his pain and nightmares go away.

Now. Now, things are so much more complicated. It's not just bad dreams anymore.

It's Hell in Sam's mind, slowly destroying him with images and memories manifesting themselves in forms of hallucinations and Lucifer and flames and agony.

"B-b'rning..." Sam whimpers pitifully as he thrashes as much as he could with the weakness most probably weighing heavily in his bones, his voice feeble. Tears of pain and fear gathers in his eyes, causing the older brother's heart to ache. It doesn't matter whether he's nine or nineteen or twenty-nine, seeing him cry still hurts. "M'b'rning."

"No, Sammy. You're not burning," Dean whispers softly, running a hand over the kid's long, sweaty hair. "You're not burning. You're just sick."

Sam sobs. A hard, gasping sound that sounds like it was wrenched forcefully out of his chest.

"Sammy, whatever you're seeing, it's not real," Dean pleads, swallowing slightly as the tears in his brother's eyes slowly made their way down his temples.

**...**

"Feel the fire, Sammy," Lucifer hisses, grinning. "Feel it burn your skin. Your flesh. Your bones. Feel it eat away all your insides."

Sam shakes his head, another sob ripping out of his chest. "Pl-pl'se."

"Aw, Sammy," Lucifer says, almost like a sympathetic parent. "Don't cry. It'll all be over soon." He tilts his head. "You know what to do. You know how to make it stop."

"Pl'se," Sam whimpers.

"You know what to do," Lucifer repeats, shrugging as if to say _I can't do anything about it_.

"T'hur's," Sam whispers, tears welling up in his eyes.

"You _know_ what to do to make it stop," Lucifer emphasizes, raising a finger slowly and pointing it to the side of his head. "All this pain could go away, if you just do what you should've a long time ago, Sammy."

The flames erupt higher, spreading all over the floor and walls and smoldering the ceiling, burning even more intensely than before.

They scorch their way through Sam's flesh as he screams, loud and blood-curdling.

**...**

"Sammy!" Dean yells as he hears his brother's agonized screams. He grabs his shoulders and shakes him hard, his eyes wide with desperation and terror. "Sammy, it's not real!"

The words don't reach Sam. He just continues to scream his throat raw and thrashes in the sheets, a trail of tears overlaying the sheen of sweat coating his flushed face.

The helpless that Dean feels is limiting, making him feel trapped between wanting to do _something_ and not knowing what that _is_. It's a cruel feeling, tinged with burning thoughts of uselessness and shame in his veins. He tries to figure out that one thing that could fix this, but his mind's racing too fast with empty solutions.

And he's just about ready to scream when he realizes that he has nothing.

He swallows, closing his eyes, and breathes through the sounds of his brother's blood-curdling screams.

_Screw it_, he decides and surges forward, gathering his feverish, hallucinating younger brother in his arms and pulling him close against his chest, ignoring the violent flinch of Sam's body. He buries his mouth in his hair and hopes that it'll be enough for the time being.

**...**

One minute, he's on fire.

The next, he's being lifted up and into someone's arms, and the flames eating away at his flesh disappears as soon as he touches cool skin. He's gasping hard for breaths, his throat scraped raw from his screams, and his heart pounds frantically in his ears and against his sternum.

"Sammy, please... please, just... snap out of it." Sam hears Dean's voice through the haze of sickness in his mind and he wants to cry with relief because he's not in hell and he's with Dean and Lucifer and the fire's _gone_.

But then Dean slowly begins to draw him away, and his trembling hands shoot up instantly to clutch weakly at his shirt. "N-no, don'... please..."

"Sammy?" Dean tries to disentangle him from himself again, probably to take a look at him, but Sam refuses to let go, gripping him tighter and shaking his head in protest of his brother's attempts to pull him away. After a while, Dean simply surrenders to it, his hands dropping down on his back. "Sammy, can you hear me?"

"Don' leggo," Sam murmurs in response, curling up further against him. "Y're cool. M'kes... m'kes the fire g-g'away."

Dean doesn't reply for a while.

"Alright," then he answers softly. Sam feels his brother shift under his head for a few seconds, and then he feels the world lower slightly, which he realizes is just Dean lying down. He feels an arm wrap around his back, and some more shifting, before he feels something cold and wet across his forehead.

He sleeps soundly for the rest of the night, knowing Dean's going to take care of him.

And for the first time in long, he doesn't see flames in his dreams.

* * *

**Twenty-three**: Answer

They did it.

They _did_ it, and he couldn't believe it.

Lucifer's dead, lying at their feet with a smoking Colt's bullet in his face. And he can't _believe_ it's actually over.

He looks up from the corpse and at Dean, seeing him grin at him, and he can't help but grin back, victory and joy and a bit of incredulity because it's _finally over_.

He should have known it was too good to be true.

His mind's numbed by shock, his feet frozen to the spot as Lucifer gasps in a large breath and makes a sound of pain that seems more mocking than real, and then he stands up and says something to Dean. He can't understand what he's saying because he can't think past the bafflement and _this was supposed to be over here. It was supposed to end here, and everything was supposed to be okay after that_, _everything was supposed to -_

The shock is jerked out of him and turns into horror when Lucifer throws Dean against a large tree behind him, and he hears a loud, sickening crack resound throughout the area. Sam's gut churns with terror as it registers in his mind that it came from Dean, his eyes widening as his brother slides to the ground in a heap and lies there. Just lies there and _doesn't wake up_.

"Dean!" Sam yells, ignoring all the demons and Lucifer as he rushes to him.

When he reaches him, staggering to his knees beside him, he rolls him over onto his back and puts one hand on his shoulder and the other on his neck, searching for a pulse desperately. He shifts his palm over and over, tells himself that he's just checking in the wrong places.

He finds none.

"Dean?" he whispers, a tremor in his voice as he weakly shakes his brother's shoulder. "Dean?"

He swallows, his eyes and throat burning as his hands moved up to grasp his face, shaking it. Dean's head lolls to the side. "Dean, please!" Sam whimpers pleadingly, tears welling up in his eyes as his face crumples.

He gives him one last shake, feeble and pathetic, before he breaks, gasping sobs ripping out of him and wracking his entire body as his hands fall to his shirt, gripping it tightly as he bends over him and leans his forehead against his, the tears dripping onto his brother's cheeks. The grief and agony shredding his heart apart sinks in deep into his core, ripping him from the inside out, and he remembers what it felt like the first time he had buried his brother's cold and dead corpse into the ground.

And he remembers why he still did all those horrible things last year, even when Dean came back. At first, it was just burning vengeance that left him restless and furious, knowing it would eat away at him forever and never be satisfied until he gave Lilith what she deserved. But then, Dean returned, alive and whole and right in front of him, _holding_ him.

And then it was vengeance and fury and pure, cold, consuming _terror_ because he had still remembered what it felt like to lose him and he swore that he'd never let himself feel that way again.

But he's feeling it now. He's feeling it all over again and he just wants it to _stop_.

"I don't like seeing you in pain, Sam," Lucifer says softly, his voice sad and sympathetic. "So how about I make you a deal?"

Sam swallows and closes his eyes, letting more tears fall. He knows what he's going to ask for, and he knows what his answer's going to be, after losing Ellen and Jo, and then _Dean_.

Dean, the man who spent his entire life practically raising him like a father and mother would; the man who had stuck with him still, even if hurt and angry at him, after his past year's heinous actions and betrayal towards him when any other person would have abandoned him and never look back; the man who had sold his soul and went to hell for him for four decades and kept him sane all these years throughout a life of blood and pain and grief and loss. His brother and his best friend who was always _there_ and how could he even _begin_ to live the rest of his years when he _wouldn't _be anymore?

"Say yes to me, and I'll bring him back."

People have always told him he was selfish. And between living an entire life without Dean and _this_...

He knows what his answer's going to be.

* * *

**Twenty-four**: Magical

He watched the other students' families as they gave them a hug, said their goodbyes and waved them from the cars as they drove away. He wished he could be one of the students, have their lives and experiences and their feelings of being supported and loved by the people they cared about.

He wished his own family was here.

He wished _Dean_ was here.

But Dean had stood by at his father's side, silent, but most probably in agreement with his father's words.

_You walk out that door, don't you ever come back._

Today was supposed to be a happy and exhilarating day, full of the feeling of being wide open with possibilities and opportunities. Today was supposed to be _magical_, a day in which he was supposed to be thinking about making new memories and about the rest of his life ahead of him. Today was supposed to be the start of it. This was where his future would be determined.

But all he could think about was how his family wouldn't be in it.

**...**

After an uneventful first day at school, Sam went to the library.

He just needed to be alone and somewhere quiet, and he knew the best options for those places were libraries.

He liked libraries. It was exactly his type of place, peaceful and silent, full of books that he could use for his own entertainment. And he knew if he'd tell Dean something like that, he'd probably crack some joke about how libraries were basically heaven for nerds like him.

The thought of his brother shot a sharp pang of sorrow and longing in his chest, bringing back the heaviness that he had been trying to distract himself from all day.

He sighed deeply, looking down at the book sadly.

For the next few minutes, his mind didn't focus on the words as his thoughts constantly drifted to his brother no matter how much he tried to avoid it, before he just gave up and let his mind wander. He wondered how Dean was right now. He hoped Dean would forgive him soon, because unlike their father, his brother never stayed angry at him for long. At least, not at him. But Dean never got angry at him for a lot of things, like for all the times Sam took the last of Lucky Charms in the cereal box, or when he used to take the better Christmas presents as a kid, or when he would have rather spent the weekend with the few friends he made at school instead of him sometimes.

But those things didn't mean as much to Dean. Those were probably just little things for him.

But choosing Stanford over his family? Leaving him behind for a normal life after all those years spent together? Those weren't little things.

And Sam wasn't sure Dean would forgive him for something like this.

But was it so wrong that he didn't want to spend the rest of his life shooting and killing black dogs and shape-shifters and seeing monster guts almost every week? Was it so wrong that he just didn't want to be a freak who kept his knife under his pillow every night before he went to bed? Was it so wrong that he wanted to study and become a lawyer and find friends and fall in love and build a life that didn't involve any supernatural creatures?

"Hi."

Sam jerked, startled, when he heard a soft female voice cut through the silence that had been filling the room for a long time.

But he looked up.

And saw a young girl, about his age, with brown eyes and curly blonde hair that fell over her shoulders in waves. There's a small mole, just between her thin, trimmed brows, a little off to the left. She was quite beautiful, and Sam found himself liking her instantly due to her sweet features. He could already sense that she was a nice person. She just seemed to give off that vibe.

"Hey," he replied, smiling kindly at her.

She smiled in response, and then gestured at the empty chair beside him. "You mind if I sit with you?" she asked.

"Yeah," Sam answered. And then quickly shook his head when he realized how the question was phrased. "I mean, no. Not at all. I... I don't mind."

He wanted to slap himself for acting so awkward. Dean would have never let him live it down.

He felt the hollow pressure in his heart grow some more.

The girl took a seat beside him and leaned forward to him so that she could speak lowly and not disturb others. "I'm Jessica Moore," she said, holding out a hand with a friendly smile.

"Sam Winchester," Sam responded, in a voice just as carefully quiet as hers, taking his smaller hand into his own and shaking it.

"I couldn't help but notice, you looked pretty upset there," she said. "I mean, not that it's any of my business. I know that. It's just..." She shrugged, smiling a little. "You look like you needed a friend, I guess."

Sam smiled.

"Well, that, _and_ you're cute," then she added, her expression turning slightly sheepish with a crinkle of her nose, which he found to be adorable.

He blushed at that, looking down at his hands shyly. "Thank you," he mumbled.

Jessica chuckled.

For the next few hours, they simply talked, getting to know each other better. They exchanged life stories, the best and the most embarrassing moments of their lives. Sam felt guilty about some of his lies, like about his father and what he did for work, but he knew the truth wasn't an option either. She told him about her interests, hobbies, her passions, her family, her friends in high school, where she came from and what she wanted to be in life. And he told her about Dean and his car and school and where he came from and everything he hoped to be someday.

And for the first time since he came here, he felt like everything was going to be magical after all.

* * *

**Twenty-Five**: Party

"Is daddy gonna be home on my birthday?" Sam asked hopefully, his eyes large and innocent.

Dean wavered. "Uh... maybe."

It wasn't the right answer, it seemed, as Sam's head ducked down sadly.

Dean knew it was because 'maybe' always meant no. He had said the same thing last year on Sammy's sixth birthday, and the year before that on his fifth, and that _maybe_ always ended up with them checking out of their windows every few minutes, hoping to see the Impala on the parking lot, until Dean decided they should go to sleep.

Their dad didn't do this on purpose. It was just the monsters that kept him back, and he always returned feeling bad about it, apologizing to Sammy and him over and over. They celebrated their birthdays a week or two late, and that was just their normal.

But it didn't stop Sammy from wishing they could just celebrate it on his _actual_ birthday.

Dean didn't like seeing his little brother so down, so when an idea occurred to him, he didn't hesitate to try and execute it.

"Hey, how about you call your classmates over, and we could have a party or something," Dean suggested, smiling broadly and feeling proud when he saw Sam's face light up.

"We can really do that, Dean?" he asked, his eyes wide with awe and happiness. And Dean felt a bit better at the sight of his smile and a bit sad that something so ordinary, something that happened on every other kid's birthday, could seem so amazing and new to his brother. Not for the first time, he longed for a life where living in motels and waiting for their dad wasn't their reality.

But even though they couldn't have that, Dean wanted to make sure that Sammy could get some semblance of experience of it, of what it can be like. He wanted to make his birthday the best it can be.

"Yeah!" Dean said, enthusiastic about this new project. "I'll arrange the party. We have enough money this time to buy a few party hats and a pack of balloons... maybe even a small cake."

The mention of cake made the biggest smile appear on Sammy's face, the dimples on his cheeks deepening as his mouth stretched ear-to-ear.

It was the best thing Dean had seen in a while.

**...**

"I invited them all to the party today!" Sam exclaimed excitedly, jumping up and down while facing Dean as they made their way over to the motel, his backpack bouncing on his back and shoulders along with him. "The teacher let me stand in front of the classroom so that I could tell them about it!"

Dean smiled and ruffled his hair. "So, are you happy now?"

Sam nodded eagerly, all of his small teeth completely exposed as he grinned. "This is gonna be the best birthday ever!"

Dean smiled, and promised to himself and his brother silently that he'd make sure it would be.

**...**

By the time night was nearing, Dean had gotten everything set. A couple of party hats, a half pack of balloons blown and used to decorate the walls colorfully. And a cheap and small cake set right in the middle of the miniature table.

Sammy was happy, and Dean thought he looked adorable with the party hat on his head, the string over his chin, as he sat on the high bed, swinging his feet back and forth in the air joyfully.

An hour later after the assigned time, they still heard no knocks.

Sam looked slightly troubled. "They will come, won't they, Dean?" he asked worriedly.

"Yeah," Dean reassured. "Their parents are probably finding problems searching for this place, that's all."

Sam accepted the theory with a nod.

And they waited.

**...**

Four hours after, by eleven pm, they had both busied themselves with television by now as they waited.

But it became clear that nobody would be arriving to Dean, and to Sammy as well, since he had stopped watching the TV screen about ten minutes ago to stare down sadly at his hands, his back hunched and his hair curtaining his eyes, which were probably full of hurt at this point.

The sight settled a deep ache in Dean's chest, and he opened his mouth and almost told Sam to wait for a while longer and _they'd come I'm sure_, as he had been doing for the past hours.

But Sammy was smart, so there was no way he'd still believe those words.

And Dean felt helpless, stuck between that annoying line of wanting to do something and not knowing what that is. The rise of failure rose within him the more he gazed at Sam from his own bed.

He sighed and looked down at his hands. "Sammy, I'm sorry," he apologized softly, his expression contrite as he felt awful for his brother's lost dreams. He knew how much he had been thinking about it ever since the idea escaped Dean's lips and reached his ears, and now to see it never happen...

Sam didn't respond for a while, his eyes locked on his small hands.

But then he sighed heavily and shook his head slightly, smiling a little, sad and broken.

"S'okay," he replied quietly, shrugging. "I knew they didn't like me anyway."

Dean closed his eyes and felt the heavy ache intensify in his heart, at the sound of shattered hopes and expectations in his baby brother's voice, the defeated acceptance in those words. He knew what it felt like. He knew what it felt like to be the freak of the school, to be looked at oddly and not have any friends. It seemed as if the darkness in their lives tainted every aspect of it, and he wondered if people could somehow sense how different and abnormal (freaks) they were from the rest. He wondered if that was why they all stayed away.

He never wanted Sammy to feel that way.

And he never wanted Sammy to have another sad birthday.

He remembered the promise he had made to him and himself in his mind, as he watched Sammy smile the happiest he had seen in so long.

And now there was another promise to be made.

The promise to not break that promise.

And, with a sense of strong determination, he got off his bed and walked to Sammy in two strides. He took a hold of his arm, causing his brother to lift his head up and look at him with furrowed brows, and Dean slowly pulled him to his feet.

"What are you doing, Dean?" Sam questioned curiously.

"I'm not gonna let you be upset on your birthday again, Sammy," Dean said, smiling, still gripping his arm as he crouched to his eye-level. "So, I'm making it the best I can." Dean straightened and moved them both towards the center of the room while he continued, "We don't need those snobby kids to have a great party! We can have one without them. And they'd be the ones missing all the fun they could have had!"

Sam still looked confused and inquisitive as to what Dean had in mind.

Dean took the party hat that Sam had taken off in the last couple of hours they'd been waiting from the table and put it back on his head, snapping the string over his chin. Sam yelped and glared at him slightly.

Dean did the same with himself, including the callous way he snapped the string over his chin. He yelped himself even though it didn't bother him that much, just to make Sammy smile. It worked for a moment, and it was enough to make Dean feel like his hero again.

"Now, just stand here," Dean said, hand on his shoulder, before he moved away and towards the radio sitting on the desk shoved against the cracked wall.

He went through all the channels until he came across a song that he liked.

_Exit light__  
Enter night_

Dean grinned and turned, running back to Sammy.

_Take my hand__  
Off to never never land_

Soon, they were both pouncing around the room, on the beds, air-guitaring and bobbing their heads through the heavy beats of the music. The party hats on their heads bounced and swayed, sometimes threatening to fall off.

Sammy's giggles and gleeful peals of laughter echoed throughout the entire motel room, and Dean's smile remained plastered on his face for the next hour or so as he watched his little brother enjoy himself, a sense of pride and joy blooming in him for the fact that _he_ was the one who brought that large, goofy grin on Sam's face.

This night wasn't what they expected, but it was still great. It was the perfect birthday party for their standards. The fact that Sammy was so happy, Dean thought, made it so for him.

"Boys?"

They both froze at the exact second they heard that voice.

There stood, at the door, John Winchester in all his grimy and dirty and bloodied clothes (thankfully not seriously hurt though, other than a few bruises on his weary face, Dean noted with relief), one hand holding the keys to the motel room and the other stilled on the doorknob, an expression of surprise on his face as he stared at them both. The music from the radio played on in the background.

Sammy was the first to react.

"Daddy!" he exclaimed happily, hopping off the bed to the ground and running into John's arms.

John caught him with a laugh, picking him up and holding him close against his chest. "Hey there, tiger," he said softly, kissing his temple.

Sammy beamed at him.

He turned his attention back to Dean. "So, what are you both doing?" he asked, not reprimanding or angry, but simply curious.

"Uh..." Dean stalled from where he was standing by the radio now, fingers outstretched towards it in order to turn it off. He pressed the off button and turned fully towards John. "It's Sammy's birthday."

"And you both were having a party while your old man was out?" John sounded amused.

Dean scratched his cheek sheepishly. "I guess?"

John nodded slowly. "Okay then."

Silence.

"Okay?" Dean repeated, looking confused.

"Okay."

"You... you don't care that we spent half of our money on all of this?" Dean gestured at the entire room with a wave of his arm. Money didn't come a lot for them even with hustling pool, and he had been sure that their father was going to be pissed for not using it sparingly when he found out about it. He knew it would have been more for their well-being than anything because he wouldn't have liked them to go hungry in case he returned weeks late.

"Oh, we'll be having _a lot_ of words about that, son," John said, chuckling, and he placed Sam down on the ground and held his tiny hand in his own instead. "But for now..."

Dean stared at him, looking slightly dreadful of his next words.

"Mind if I join the party?"

* * *

**(_Extra_) Twenty-Six**: As You Are

"Ey De'n?" Sam slurred.

Dean rolled his eyes and slowly turned around on his heel, and then walked towards his stupid, drunk, sixteen year old brother who happened to have too much to drink at a stupid party full of stupid teenagers who thought it'd be cool to make his stupid brother drink about two bottles of beer until he got stupid-drunk and make himself look stupid.

Which, sadly, worked quite well. Because when Sam called him...

_"Sam?"_

_"I'm not Sam," Sam said, giggling. "I'm... I'm..."_

_"Woah, wait... are you drunk?," He heard a few people chuckling in the background._

_Silence._

_"Tha's... tha's not truuu. Stop lyin..."_

_"Sam... I only _asked _you if you were drunk," Dean replied, rolling his eyes._

_"...Oh."_

"Dad's so gonna kill you when he comes back tomorrow," Dean muttered, sitting beside him.

"But Da' only kills mons'ers," Sam said, very logically, because Dean totally meant that in a literal sense.

"Speaking of monsters, little brother. You'll definitely be sporting a monstrous hangover tomorrow morning, so here's your aspirin and _here_'s your water." He pushed the pill and bottle into his hand, and Sam downed said pill with said water bottle down his throat, and then reclined down on his back on the bed, shifting until he got comfortable.

"De'n? Sam whispered, staring at the ceiling.

"Hm?"

"D'you think... think I migh' be a mons'er?"

Dean paused.

"What?"

"M' I a mons'er?" Sam repeated, shifting his gaze to Dean's face and staring at him through wide, wet puppy eyes.

"Why would you think that, Sammy?" Dean asked softly.

"'Cause... 'cause sometimes, I don' feel clean..."

Dean's eyebrows scrunched up, and he shook his head."What do you mean? You take like thirty showers a week!"

"No... not like... not like thaaa'. But like... like..." he trailed off.

"Like what?"

Sam remained silent for a while, and then sighed and shook his head. "Neve' mind."

**...**

"Ey De'n?"

"You're still awake?" Dean asked from where he was sitting on his own bed in front of the TV, raising his eyebrows.

"I think so."

Dean rolled his eyes. "What?"

"Couldja... couldja come 'ere for a sec?"

"No. Why?"

"M'not tellin' 'nless you come 'ere."

Dean stared at him, heaved a huge sigh, picked up the remote and pressed the off button, and then turned his head and stared at him some more, his gaze then turning into something wary.

But he still slid off the bed, suspicious as he was, and, puffing his cheeks with a heavy exhale and shaking his head slightly, stood up and slowly made his way over to his brother in three steps. He sat beside him.

"You 'member Zoey Hawkins?"

"Yeah. She was the girl who left you when she found out you couldn't take her to a fancy restaurant on your first date."

"Ya. An' you 'member... you 'member wha' you said to me when you foun' out?"

"That she was a greedy bitch who'd get eaten by a Jikininki some day?"

"Not tha' one. The othe' one."

Dean thought hard, his eyebrows lowering in contemplation. "That... people who'd really love you would accept you as you are?"

He really wanted to smack himself for saying something so not-manly.

"Ya..."

"What about it?"

Sam paused.

And then sighed.

"Well," he began, raising his hands to Dean's face and squishing his cheeks as he stared at him very, _very_ seriously. Dean didn't like where this was going. He was sure Sam was going to pull out something extremely sappy and chick-flicky.

But it'd make good blackmail material, so...

"I jus' wanned you t'know tha'..."

"That?"

Sam sighed again. "That you're stupid."

Dean's head recoiled, taken aback. That was _not_ what he expected. "Wh-what?" he sputtered, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

"And ugly."

"Excuse me? I'm totally the hotter-"

"And disgustin'."

"Well, yeah, I gue-"

"And short."

"Thanks," Dean deadpanned, feeling Sam squeeze his cheeks even more as if to say '_just_ _bear with me'_.

"And stupid."

"You already said that."

"Aaaand a jerk."

"You done?"

"Not yet." Sam cleared his throat, and his mouth slowly grew into a large grin. He patted both sides of his face.

"And I love you."

* * *

**Author's Note**: Hi, Alex! Here's the last installment of your birthday gift! I really hoped you enjoyed all of it, my friend! The last one, I thought, was like an apology for my horrible timing. I'm very, very sorry for that.

Let me know your favorites, and that goes for everyone as well! Thank you so much for all your reviews, my readers! I'm glad you liked it.

We've been friends for two whole years now, my friend. And we've made our way through nineteen pages of conversations, collaborated on a story together, and helped each other through countless writing blocks (You helped me more than I helped you, might I add truthfully. Thank you so much for that!). Thank you for being my friend! *hugs* Love you!


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